I force myself to turn back toward the house. “Nothing.”
But my voice sounds wrong to my own ears.
Inside, the doors close behind us with a hush that feels almost too final. The servants move carefully around the sleeping children. Mama carries Sofia upstairs. I follow with Nikolai heavy in my arms, my steps slower now, my mind still half on the dark outside.
By the time I lay him down in bed and pull the blanket up to his chin, I have almost convinced myself I imagined it.
Almost.
And when I straighten and look toward the nursery window, the glass reflects only the room behind me.
18
ROMAN
The first textcomes from an unknown number at eleven fourteen.
I ignore it.
I get enough unknown numbers in a week to fill a cemetery. Men asking for meetings. Women asking for favors. Lawyers trying to sound more important than they are. People who think access can be bought if they use enough flattering words.
This one says only:
You left very quickly last night.
No name. No context.
I put the phone face down on the desk and let Elena continue with the afternoon schedule.
“Kostin at one, Antwerp at two-thirty, and the arbitration call moved to four if you still want it there.”
My phone lights again.
I’m trying not to take it personally.
Then, before I can decide whether to block the number, it vibrates again.
Though I probably should.
I pick up the phone. Still no name.
“Elena,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Pause.”
She closes the folder in her hands and waits.
I read the messages again. The tone is familiar now. Too pleased with itself. Too sure that annoyance and flirtation are interchangeable.
Then the third message comes.
I’m being punished with lunch and bad company.
And the fourth, seconds later:
Also, your little dance was wasted on me if you’re going to disappear after.
